


A Gentle Hand

by NightHerald



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Bath Sex, Dubious Consent, Hand Jobs, Incest, M/M, Parent/Child Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-17
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-06-02 22:26:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6585055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NightHerald/pseuds/NightHerald
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His father's hand moves on his body in a way he never imagined, but now that he has experienced it he finds he craves that touch with a fervor that frightens him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Gentle Hand

Once, when Legolas was a small child, he fell out of a great beech tree that grew just beyond the palace gates. He wasn't allowed to be outside on his own and had told no one he where he was going, but as he sat rocking back and forth in the dirt and the dead leaves, his father came to him as if called. He gathered Legolas in his arms and rubbed his cool hand over his back, and his deep, calm voice banished the tears and pain.

Now, walking through the corridors with a stiff stride and a throbbing gash on his right arm – souvenirs from his month spent scouting the southern borders of his father's kingdom – Legolas wishes he could sooth his father's grievances. He longs for the days when his words could make his father's eyes shine and a smile bloom across his face. But the world is grim now, and King Thranduil's eyes have become hard and cold like the gems he covets, and they grow ever harder with each report he receives chronicling the decay of his forest

Legolas halts on his way to his chambers. He refused his guards' insistence that he visit a healer, preferring to tend to his hurts himself, but the path his thoughts have wandered down has left an ache of nostalgia in his chest, and the cool water of his father's private bath would go a long way to soothing it. After spending the last month in the company of other elves, he finds he desires solitude, but more than that he craves his father's steadfast presence and the sweet memory of being cared for.

He turns on his heel and heads for his father's chambers.

When Legolas opens the door he finds the room unoccupied, and he quells the childish part of himself that is disappointed and closes the door quietly behind him. Like the rest of the palace, the sound of falling water inhabits the silence created by the absence of growing things. On the far side of the room, a shallow pool glints in the light of moon and candle. Fed by a stream that falls from above and continues it's journey over the edge of an aperture in the far wall, the pool is always fresh and requires little maintenance. The air around it is damp with the smell of water, and Legolas fills his lungs with it as he retrieves a cloth and a cake of soap from a recess in the stone wall.

With only slight difficulty, Legolas removes his clothing and steps into the pool. The cool water laps at his knees and eases the aches accumulated during his foray into the forest. He sits on the rim and listens to the tinkle of water blend with the lower rush of the fall as he dips the clothe in and rings it out. He lathers the soap and proceeds to wash the remnants of his journey from his body.

After a time, when dirt and blood is replaced by soap suds, Legolas hears the door open behind him. There's silence for a few moments; he can feel his father's regard, and Legolas has the distinct impression that he is frowning. Then the door clicks shut and Thranduil releases a breath.

“You are hurt,” he says. Legolas can feel his gaze on his skin, and he's seized with the urge to cover himself.

“I will heal,” Legolas says.

“That you must heal at all is cause for displeasure.” There is a strange quality to his voice, and Legolas soon realizes his father is _drunk_. It is seldom that the Elvenking indulges enough to become intoxicated; that it has occurred so soon after his latest report is worrisome.

Thranduil walks up behind him, his footsteps heavier than they should be. He leans over Legolas, and his hair falls against his bare chest, tickling his skin. This close, he can smell the wine on his breath. But Legolas isn't bothered by that.

His father is very warm. Since reaching manhood, Legolas has seldom touched another elf. Sometimes he envies the closeness mortals share with each other in their daily lives. He yearns to lean into that warmth and allow himself to be enveloped by it.

Thranduil touches his fingers to the bruises covering his left thigh, and Legolas jerks slightly from the unexpected contact, but his father makes no comment. His fingers withdraw, and their sudden absence leaves Legolas feeling chilled.

“They are almost healed,” Legolas says with a smile in his voice. “Do not worry over it.”

Thranduil hums in response. He straightens, and Legolas experiences a moment of confusion when he hears him kneel behind him. Then his father's hand reaches around him to pluck the cloth from his fingers, and he rinses the soap from it before running it over his shoulder.

“I _am_ old enough to bathe myself now, ada,” Legolas says, his voice breathy with amusement.

“Nonsense. You are injured.” Legolas smiles to hear the lightness of his father's tone, and he finds he doesn't mind when the cloth runs over his injured arm.

“As I've been many times before, and I've never failed to take care of myself.”

“Yes...” Thranduil says, his voice graver than the light banter warrants, and Legolas rebukes himself for dampening his father's spirits. “You no longer require me to do these things for you, do you?” He dips the cloth back in the water, and the thought occurs to Legolas that perhaps Thranduil needs to do this – needs to return to a simpler time, when Legolas' hurts could be easily soothed with a gentle hand. The problems that now face the king are not so easily remedied and, drunk as he is, perhaps he's simply indulging in this dream of a brighter past.

Legolas struggles to find words that will ease his father's troubled mind, but every comment that comes to his tongue has the potential to poke at some hidden wound, so Legolas remains silent.

Thranduil gathers Legolas' hair, causing his scalp to prickle pleasantly, and moves it over his shoulder so it's out of the way. He runs the cloth down his spine, and over the rush of the fall Legolas can hear the rhythm of his father's breathing. A shudder runs through Legolas. He stiffens as the cloth reaches the dip of his lower back, and his father's hand falters. When he raises the cloth again disappointment twinges oddly in Legolas' gut.

Water trickles down his back, ghosts of the earlier sensation, and Legolas worries over the strange reaction of his body. Thranduil's free hand moves to his waist as he wipes his shoulder. He squeezes slightly, and Legolas inhales as a fluttery sensation stirs in his belly. His father's fingers dig into the soft flesh below his ribs, causing Legolas to arch backward slightly. 

Legolas releases a shaky breath. He can no longer deny the effect this is having on his body. The evidence is stirring to life before his eyes. His face burns, and he mutters some excuse as he rises to leave, but his father catches him about the waist and pulls him back against his chest, heedless of the water dampening his robe.

“It's alright,” Thranduil says.

“But –” Legolas' throat closes up; he can't bear to acknowledge his depravity aloud.

“Let me help you.” 

Thranduil's breath heats the back of his neck, and the warmth of it travels down his body and pools between his legs. Thranduil's hand chases it there.

Legolas' lips part on a sigh, and he's panting now, but he can't seem to stop. He dares a glance down at himself and can see he is now rigid in his father's hand. A sick swoop of shame mingles with the heat bubbling in his belly.

Legolas swallows thickly. “A-ada... We can't...“

“Shh.”

Thranduil kisses his ear, and his hand moves upon his length.

Bright pleasure such as he has never experienced flares suddenly and Legolas cries out as much in surprise as in pleasure. He squeezes his eyes shut and lets his head fall back on Thranduil's shoulder. Any thoughts of escape he entertained are chased from his mind by the onslaught of new sensation. His father's hand moves on his body in a way he never imagined, but now that he has experienced it he finds he craves that touch with a fervor that frightens him. It's as if Thranduil uncovered an ember hidden deep in the shadows of his heart, amid cracks he never dared examine too closely, and coaxed it into an inferno that fills every part of him until he can no longer deny it's existence.

He sinks into his father's warmth, grasping desperately at the arm that holds him around his waist, and Thranduil squeezes him, the pressure forcing a mewl from his lips. His hips seem to move of their own volition as his father pulls languidly at his cock, and Legolas' face burns with shame and humiliation as he pushes his length further into his father's palm. Despite the wrongness, he can't help but seek out that delirious rush.

Something hard jabs into Legolas' back, and with a lurid lurch he realizes it's his father's hard member. He doesn't rut against him or make any effort to pleasure himself. He simply continues his maddening ministrations, and Legolas finds himself inadvertently rubbing against his father's hardness as his hips buck into his touch. Thranduil inhales sharply next to his ear and his pace falters for a moment, but he quickly regains his composure with an extra firm squeeze that has Legolas whining pitifully. 

The scrape of stone and cloth against his bare skin is a delicious burn that heats his body like a pyre. Moans tumble from his lips, and Legolas clamps a hand over his mouth to contain them. Thranduil nestles his cheek against Legolas'. His breath skitters across his skin, raising goose-flesh in it's wake. His body is aflame with desire, burning hotter and more fiercely as it rapidly consumes itself.

“P-please – Ada...” Legolas says, syllables spilling from his lips with no thought to give them meaning. He grips the edge of the pool, and the nails of his other hand dig into Thranduil's arm. “Ada, please, oh, _oh Ada_ –“

Pleasure spirals higher and higher until it twists tightly within him and bursts forth. He spills his seed into the pool, in milky clouds that bloom into strange shapes. Thranduil continues to pump him until every last drop is rung from him. Legolas sinks against his father, chest heaving, shuddering from the enormity of what just occurred. He doesn't think he could hold himself up if he tried.

Thranduil kisses his temple. “I love you,” he murmurs. “Remember that.”

He wraps his arms around Legolas and holds him close. Legolas can't find his voice. He feels fulfilled in his father's warm embrace, contentment humming in his brain, but at the same time panic crawls just below his skin. 

For his father's sake, he holds back the tears that threaten to fall.

**Author's Note:**

> In an interview, Orlando Bloom said that elves don't hug or touch the way humans do, so I included that detail in there.
> 
> Originally, this was going to be non-con, but then Legolas got lonely and I wrote too much lead up to the smut and the non-con seemed out of place and disrupted the feel of the rest of the fic.


End file.
